


Ballad of a Dove

by kopycat_101



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Akuma (Miraculous Ladybug), Alternate Universe - No Miraculous, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter, Bi Disaster Nathaniel Kurtzberg, Bisexual Nathaniel Kurtzberg, Boys In Love, Canon Jewish Character, Crush at First Sight, Crushes, Cute, Dorks in Love, Falling In Love, First Love, First Meetings, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gay Disaster Marc Anciel, Gay Marc Anciel, Gay Panic, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Marc Anciel & Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug are Cousins, Meet-Cute, Mutual Pining, Pining, Pre-Slash, Slash, Slow Burn, Teen Angst, Teen Crush, Teen Romance, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:35:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26475781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kopycat_101/pseuds/kopycat_101
Summary: Marc doesn’t have many friends and likes to spend his time in the cemetery that’s by his house. On a walk in the cemetery, Marc meets a redheaded artist that captures his interest instantly, quickly gaining his friendship.But Nathaniel is secretive and mysterious, and it’s not just the fact that he hangs out around graves for inspiration. Nathaniel apparently doesn’t go to school and seems cagey about his family.Marc will try his best to get close to Nathaniel if it’s the last thing he does. He won’t just settle for having a crush on this amazing artist.
Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir & Alya Césaire & Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug & Nino Lahiffe, Alya Césaire/Nino Lahiffe, Marc Anciel & Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Marc Anciel & Nathaniel Kurtzberg, Marc Anciel/Nathaniel Kurtzberg, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Nathaniel Kurtzberg & Original Kurtzberg Character(s)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 49





	Ballad of a Dove

**Author's Note:**

> This fic all started by me writing a prompt on my phone in my friends discord server. The prompt was 500 words long.
> 
> Now at 7600 words, this fic was born!
> 
> Love to everyone in the MarcNath multiverse server!

* * *

Marc slips out of his house, breathing in deeply, closing his eyes and turning his face up to the sun’s rays. It’s a nice day out today. Perfect to go outside and write.

He hops down the front steps of his childhood home, crunching down the gravel path. The path is so ingrained in him that his feet move automatically down the winding little trail to the cemetery.

The cemetery’s pretty much his backyard. Most would find it creepy. Marc finds it charming, in an odd way. Always has, and probably always will. The cemetery’s not all bad, besides. It’s fairly peaceful. No one causes trouble in the neighborhood or causes a ruckus. It’d be disrespectful to the dead if they did.

There isn’t even a fence that he has to cross or jump, just a few wooden posts he easily sidesteps that separates the neighborhood from the gravestones.

Marc treks his way down the winding rows, notebook and pen clutched in one hand.

The graves are always his favorite place to find peace and quiet to write. No one really comes here unless they’re in mourning or there’s a funeral—and when there is, Marc steers clear.

Today, though, there’s someone else in the cemetery. Marc blinks, stalling in place. The person has vibrant red hair, like a flame, visible even from afar. A very unique and eye-catching color.

Despite himself, Marc goes to take a closer look.

Marc’s careful as he crosses the rows of graves, nearing the figure, who turns out to be a boy around his age. The redhead is hunched over a sketchbook, drawing, back leaning against a statue.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before,” Marc starts, feeling oddly confident in himself. Maybe it’s the fact that they’re the only people around. No one else here to judge him, after all, so there’s less pressure in social interactions.

Besides, no one else hangs around cemeteries. The other is probably a loner, too.

The boy snaps his head up, blinking back at Marc. One of his eyes is covered by overgrown bangs—very cute and a nice aesthetic, actually—but the uncovered eye is bright blue. Like, unnaturally blue. The type of blue you could only find in contact lenses or when the sunlight strikes a lake’s surface perfectly.

The other smiles back at him, a crooked and boyish thing that makes Marc’s heart trip in his chest, like the gay disaster he is. “Hi. I’m Nathaniel.”

“Marc. It’s nice to meet you,” he introduces himself.

“Even if we’re doing it in a cemetery?” the redhead asks jokingly.

Marc laughs. “Well, we’re meeting here now, so I don’t see why not. Besides, it doesn’t really bother me.” He nods to the redhead’s sketchbook. “Mind if I take a look…?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

Marc sits down next to Nathaniel, making sure to keep a few inches between their bodies to be polite. Nathaniel is quick to extend his sketchbook towards him once he settles into place.

“That’s so cool…! That’s the tree I usually sit under!” Marc gasps, looking at the detailed drawing of the ginormous oak tree he habitually visits to get his writing juices flowing.

“You have a favorite tree here?” Nathaniel asks. Marc looks up sheepishly, but notes that the redhead isn’t asking him mockingly. In fact, he’s smiling gently back at Marc in a way that makes heat rise to his cheeks.

“I visit here a lot. I-It’s a good place to write,” Marc admits bashfully, fiddling with his notebook, relieved when the other boy nods back.

“It’s a good place to draw.”

“Can I watch you draw more, then…?” Marc asks the other boy, plans of writing long forgotten. “I just _have_ to find out how you can draw so realistically! It’s incredible.”

He bites his lip soon after he gets the words out, realizing that maybe he’s coming on too strong. Marc’s gratified to see the redhead’s cheeks turn pink before he ducks his head to hide behind his overgrown bangs. “O-Okay.”

* * *

Marc is excited to go back to the cemetery again.

The next day may be too quick to go back looking for Nathaniel. After all, what’s the chance that Nathaniel would be there two days in a row…?

Marc feels gratified when he starts to look across the cemetery, and he sees a head of vibrant red hair sitting under Marc’s usual oak tree.

Marc smiles.

* * *

Nathaniel is cute and friendly and talented, and Marc really doesn’t know how to deal with it. He feels inadequate in comparison.

It’s probably why he’s only watched Nathaniel draw so far and hasn’t offered to show the redhead his writing. Embarrassingly enough, Nathaniel seems to realize this as well.

“You know, you keep saying you come here to write, but I haven’t actually seen you write the past few times we’ve met,” Nathaniel tells him a little bit more than a week into their acquaintanceship. Friendship? Marc hopes they’re friends, but he doesn’t exactly have many in the first place, if one doesn’t count his cousin Marinette.

Which, really is a sad existence, only having your cousin as your friend. Marinette was sweet and all, but she was obligated to be loyal to him because he’s family. This is the first time in a while that Marc’s ever really went out of his way to make his own friends, and not just hang out with Marinette’s.

“Oh…Uh. Sorry?” Marc replies sheepishly.

“Why are you apologizing? I was just wondering,” Nathaniel laughs. He has a very nice laugh. It’s a laugh that makes Marc feel warm and supported. “You just keep watching me draw, and I’ve never actually seen you write.”

“Usually, I write!” Marc says, flustered. “It’s just…admittedly, your drawings are much more interesting.”

“Hey, don’t say that,” the redhead chides with a gentle and private little smile. “I’m sure your writing is interesting too…In fact, I’ve sort of been wondering if I could read some? Only if you want, of course.”

The writer finds himself blinking back at the artist, taken aback. It made sense that Nathaniel would be curious. After all, Marc claimed to be a writer, and he always brings his notebook with him when they meet. An exchange of their crafts only seemed to make sense.

Still, he hasn’t had many people ask him to share his writing. The list of people he’s shown is small, as a defense mechanism.

He can be mocked for being too girly and gay and pretty for a boy, but his bullies can’t mock what they don’t know. If they haven’t read his writing, they can’t bully him for that, can’t make the jabs more personal.

But Marc finds himself trusting Nathaniel. He’s a loner too, he’s gathered very quickly. The redhead flusters whenever Marc compliments his drawings, as if he’s completely unused to being praised for them—which is an utter shame, since they’re always very impressive.

So Marc knows that if there’s anyone he can share his writing with and not be judged for it, it’s with Nathaniel.

“O-Okay…You can read some of it,” Marc nods, biting down a giggle when Nathaniel loudly whoops and thrusts a fist in the air. “But! But please only read the pages I open it to.”

“Alright, I will,” the redhead promises easily, with a wide grin.

The writer’s reservations fall through his fingers like sand at the genuine excitement the artist shows, blue eyes glimmering bright. Those eyes are a danger to his health, he swears.

Marc opens his notebook to a two-page short story, carefully handing it over to the redhead. The other takes the notebook with obvious care, despite his palpable excitement.

Marc feels like he’ll melt into a puddle of anxiety, waiting for the other boy’s verdict. He tries not to stare at the redhead’s face, looking for expressions that show what he’s feeling.

After five minutes, Nathaniel closes the notebook, looking up at Marc with a beaming smile. “That was _amazing_!” the redhead gushes. “You’re a great writer, Marc. That was pretty much a perfect story!”

“R-Really?” Marc asks, taken aback. He feels dazed as he takes back his notebook, hugging it to his chest to anchor himself.

“Mhm! The atmosphere was perfect, and the words were poetic, and—” the redhead waves his hands about, as if trying to pluck the words he’s thinking of straight from the air. “Well, I’m not great at describing things, but even I can see you’re talented.”

Nathaniel grins at him, and Marc feels his face go as hot as an oven.

* * *

“So…How old are you?” Marc asks with faux-casualness, tapping his pen against his notebook.

Nathaniel looks like he’s around Marc’s age, if short for his age. But he hopes they’re not _too_ far apart. That might get in the way of them spending time together based on their grade level alone.

Nathaniel tilts his head, as if thinking it over. “Fifteen.”

“Oh! Me too!” Marc says excitedly, his heart fluttering. “What school do you go to…? I’m at Dupont, it’s not that far from here.”

Nathaniel gives a hum. He shrugs. “Eh. I don’t go to a high school.”

“Are you homeschooled…?” Marc wonders. Which, very unique, if he is.

“In a sense,” the redhead responds cryptically, with a wry twist on his lips.

Before Marc can puzzle out what Nathaniel means, the other obviously changes the subject. Marc lets him.

* * *

Two weeks later, and Marc falls into a routine.

Every day after school, he goes to the cemetery. Most days Nathaniel is also there, but not all.

He’ll sit with the redhead. Sometimes he’ll ask about Nathaniel’s newest drawing. Sometimes they’ll make idle small talk. Sometimes they even just sit quietly next to each other while they do their own thing.

Whether they’re talking, or exchanging their sketchbook and notebook with one another, or they’re even just sitting in one another’s presence, Marc feels…happy. Content.

Every piece of information Nathaniel gives him, he makes sure to remember for later. Nathaniel is vague when he talks about his family. His eyes go distant and glassy when he does. Marc guesses that Nathaniel’s either not on good terms with them, or something tragic happened to them, and he’s a little scared to press for more.

All he can do is provide a comfortable companionship. And Nathaniel doesn’t get forlorn for long. He always snaps out of his reverie when Marc asks him a question to change the subject, shooting him a soft and grateful smile.

Nathaniel is a fascinating person. Marc wants to learn everything about him. The good and the bad.

He’s certain that with enough time, he will.

* * *

Marc groans, collapsing next to Nath under their usual spot under the oak tree.

“Bad day today?” Nathaniel asks him sympathetically with a crooked grin.

“The _worst_ ,” Marc emphasizes in a near whine. “Ugh. _Mondays_.”

“Mondays…Always the dreaded day of the week,” the artist nods, but his voice is teasing. Marc totally doesn’t pout back at him, no siree.

“I had a test today in Science.”

“Didn’t you study for it…?” Nathaniel starts, before amending, “Well, last time you promised you’d study.”

“I did! I did. But the last three problems were starting to look like gibberish to me. They were super long word problems.”

“That’s the worst,” the artist grimaces, voice full of sympathy. “Science had always been my weakest subject.”

“I like it okay, but my teacher is super strict! _And_ she’s my Homeroom teacher too. Ms. Mendeleive runs her class like a drill sergeant sometimes. ”

“Double the bad luck, then, huh?”

“Yeah,” Marc sighs, flopping back against the tree and leaning his head to the side. “Can you distract my bad day with some of your amazing art instead…?”

He feels instantly better when Nath sputters, flustered and pink cheeked at his compliment.

* * *

“Um, I wanted to show you a poem I wrote,” Marc starts tentatively, after he sits down next to Nathaniel.

The redhead blinks back at him, before smiling. “A poem? Your poems are always nice.”

“Y-Yeah, but, um…” Marc feels his hands tremble, and he clenches his fingers on his notebook. He takes a deep breath. “I, um. Wrote it about one of your drawings, actually.”

He fumbles open his notebook, before presenting it to the redhead, who takes it from him carefully.

“The drawing you did of the woman praying at a grave? It really inspired me,” the writer admits shyly, ducking his head and wringing his hands. He looks up at Nathaniel through his lashes, noting, “It was so moving, I just…sort of had to write about it, you know?”

Nathaniel stare back at him, sea-blue eyes wide and mouth slightly parted. He darts his eyes down to the pages, full of disbelief. “You…You wrote something? About my art?” Nathaniel asks quietly, voice strangled.

“I-I’m sorry! I know it’s probably k-kind of weird, and I never got your permission, but—”

Marc nearly jolts out of his skin, when he feels something cold grab onto one of his hands. He looks down at Nathaniel’s hand on his, startled and amazed.

Nathaniel’s never touched him before, like this. Sometimes they accidentally brush fingers or bump shoulders, but Marc learned quickly that for whatever reason, the redhead shied away from physical touch.

Except now.

“The fact that you’ve written about my art is _amazing_ , Marc, no matter what it is,” Nathaniel tells him with a voice full of conviction and something else Marc can’t quite place. “Thank you.”

Marc feels his face burn, and he nearly snatches his hand away from the redhead in a panic. He stops himself just in time. “Y-You should read it before you say it’s a-amazing.”

“I probably should,” the artist allows, taking his hand away from Marc’s. Already, Marc wishes to have that icy hand back on his, no matter how ridiculously cold it was. “But I’m sure it’ll be amazing regardless, you know. It’s written by you, after all.”

Marc’s heart does an entire gymnastics routine in his chest. He squeaks, ducking his head to hide his embarrassment. “H-How can you say something that embarrassing so easily?!”

He peers up carefully through his lashes. Nathaniel is looking down at Marc’s notebook, reading the poem penned on its pages, cheeks as red as his hair.

A long, fraught minute passes.

Nathaniel bites his lip, still staring down at the notebook, but his eyes have stopped moving. He’s obviously finished already. Marc doesn’t want to rush him, but the suspense is killing him.

“I was right. It’s…amazing. No, more than just amazing,” Nathaniel shakes his head, looking up to stare boldly into Marc’s eyes, voice serious as the grave as he states, “It’s the best thing that’s happened to me for as long as I can remember.”

“I-It’s really not that big of a deal…!” Marc sputters, waving his hands in front of himself.

Nathaniel shakes his head, bangs swishing with the movement. “No one’s ever written anything about my art before, Marc. It really _is_ a big deal. To me, at least. _Thank you_.”

Every part of Marc’s body feels like its on fire, as he takes back his notebook from Nathaniel. Their fingers brush, icy cold digits against his tanned ones, causing a shiver to worm down his spine.

“Y-You’re welcome, then,” he tells Nathaniel, feeling overwhelmed beyond belief. He wants to curl up in a ball like an armadillo, or retreat into his hoodie like a turtle would its shell.

He knows Nathaniel’s looks are bold, but he keeps forgetting that the other’s personality is just as bold. Nathaniel can state things without any shame or remorse. Marc kind of wishes he had that sort of confidence and guile.

Maybe in his next life, huh?

* * *

As Marc spends more and more time with Nathaniel, he becomes more and more distracted in class.

Sometimes, he’ll be taking notes. And then he’ll suddenly think of Nath’s hair, or his smile, or the loud way he laughs where he throws his head back and clutches his stomach.

Marc’s class notes start to suffer for his lack of attention, but his notebook starts to flourish with bits and pieces of stories and poems, all centered around Nathaniel.

He keeps those pages hidden from Nathaniel during their usual exchanges, of course. And of course, Nathaniel is polite enough that he doesn’t stray from the pages Marc presents to him to read.

But Marc has the flitting thought: how would Nathaniel react to reading them? Reading about how Marc sees him?

He’s not sure he wants to find out.

* * *

It takes him a few days to realize, oh. This is a crush.

Marc has a crush on Nathaniel.

He avoids the cemetery for three days after that.

* * *

It’s three long days of torture, not visiting Nathaniel.

Marc’s never realized before, but he’d been spending _a lot_ of time at the cemetery as of late. Like, hours at a time sort of _a lot_.

Marc never stays until it’s nightfall, at Nathaniel’s insistence that they should stay safe. Even if Marc’s house is right next door, he knows Nathaniel might not live as close by. So it’s only polite to part from the other when the sun’s about to set. But that still leaves a good four hours of time spent together per day. Four hours isn’t anything to sneeze at.

Marc’s gay crush crises only lasts for three days, before he goes stir-crazy and can’t keep himself cooped up. Or maybe he just can’t keep himself from Nathaniel.

Either way, on the fourth day, he finds Nathaniel sulking by their usual spot, living up to his emo bangs. Marc feels guilty that he thinks its sort of cute, seeing the redhead sort of miserable.

“Hey…” Marc gets out, watching Nathaniel snap his head up to gape at him.

There’s a heartbreaking amount of relief written across Nathaniel’s face, before the redhead’s blurting out, “I’m sorry! Whatever I did to make you mad and avoid me, I’m so sorry, Marc!”

Marc stops in front of his friend—crush—stunned. “What?” he asks weakly.

“Was it something I said? Or drew? Whatever it is, please tell me. I won’t do it again,” the redhead says quickly, frantically, knees up to his chest and nearly curling himself up into a ball.

“It wasn’t you, Nathaniel!” Marc blurts, shaking his head. “It was me! I—I stopped the last three days, without a warning. _I’m_ the one that’s sorry.”

The redhead stares back at him, eyes as deep and tumultuous as the ocean. “Are…Are you sure?” the other asks, in an oddly small and unsure voice, not at all what Marc expects from someone as vibrant and bold as Nathaniel.

“I’m sure,” Marc nods, stepping forward and promptly plopping in his usual spot next to the redhead. He gives an apologetic grin—more grimace than anything, really—and says again, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out. Can you forgive me?”

He’s really screwed up, huh? So much for wanting to be sweet towards his crush and win Nathaniel over…

Marc wouldn’t blame Nathaniel if he took some time to think things over, but it floors him how quickly the other responds with, “Of course I forgive you!”

Marc freezes as Nathaniel puts both his hands on Marc’s shoulders. Even through the hoodie he habitually wears, he _swears_ he can feel the iciness of the other’s hands through the material.

“Of course I forgive you. Marc, you’re literally the only person I talk to,” Nathaniel states, and Marc goggles back in shock. The redhead’s voice gets a bit more vehement as he goes on with, “When you were gone, I’d thought that meant I would be alone again, so I sort of freaked out. And I’m sorry, that’s a lot to put on you, I know—”

“Me too!” the writer blurts, feeling himself flush. He ducks his head, admitting, “I…Y-You’re pretty much the main person I really talk to that isn’t my family, s-so. Not seeing you was driving me crazy.”

Oh God. Oh fuck. Did he really just say that out loud…?!

He feels his heart thump staccato in his chest, thrumming like a war drum. What if Nathaniel realizes…? What if he takes the confession for what it is? Will Nathaniel break their friendship off for real? He probably will. Marc knows—

Marc keeps himself eerily still, as Nathaniel leans forwards and places his forehead against one of Marc’s shoulders. “Thank you.”

Marc doesn’t point out how shaky the redhead’s voice is, nor does he complain about how his shoulders start to go numb from how hard Nathaniel’s gripping them.

* * *

Marc knows he’s fucked when he wakes up in the morning from a dream about him hugging Nath in the middle of a gorgeous meadow.

He didn’t want to wake up from that dream, chest full of butterflies and an uncontrollable smile on his lips.

He buries his face in his pillow and screams.

* * *

“When were you going to tell me you had a crush?”

Marc yelps, jolting away from Marinette, who wraps an arm around his shoulders.

“M-M-Mari!” he squeaks, face warm. “What—I don’t—I d-don’t know what you’re t-talking about…”

“Riiiight,” his cousin drawls, a wide grin on her face, eyes gleaming. “Okay. As if you haven’t been acting like a lovesick puppy the past month.”

Sure, Marc has recently developed a little crush on Nathaniel, but…

Wait. Month?!

“I-It’s not—I’m not—” he sputters out, voice hitched up an octave.

“ _Hair like a burning flame, eyes like Summer’s rain_ ,” Marinette recites, on her tiptoes as she peers around his shoulder at his notebook. “Yuuuup, that sounds like a crush, alright! You’ve got it _bad_ , Marc.”

The writer groans loudly, snapping his notebook closed and burying his face against the cover. He feels a hand pat at his shoulder consolingly. “It’s okay, you know…But it _does_ explain where you’ve been running off to, and why you’ve been hanging out with me less. You were chasing after a boy.”

“Please shut up. You’re killing me,” Marc says, muffled against his notebooks cover, in a voice he barely keeps from a whine.

Marinette gives his shoulder one last pat. “Well, good luck with whoever it is! It doesn’t sound like he goes to our school. Red hair and blue eyes is pretty rare.”

She’s right on the nose, too. The only time Marc’s ever seen Nathaniel is at the cemetery.

Nathaniel had admitted, in that vague way he does when revealing anything substantial about himself, that he doesn’t go to school anymore. Marc hadn’t asked beyond that. Could he be homeschooled? A drop-out? It wasn’t Marc’s place to know.

But he knows for sure Nathaniel doesn’t go to their school. And he knows that this fact will only be a temporary roadblock, if Marinette decides to go looking. She was nosy like that.

“I-I’m fine, Mari. Don’t worry about it,” he tells her.

“I’ll worry anyways, but sure! We’ll say I won’t,” Marinette grins back innocently.

* * *

Marc keeps going to the cemetery, trying to act casual, even if he’s a lovesick mess inside.

Nathaniel keeps drawing, and Marc keeps writing, and they keep talking. It’s a good system they have going.

Every time Marc writes something about Nathaniel’s art, the way the artist looks at him is indescribable.

He wants to spend enough time with Nathaniel to be able to decode everything about him, including his reactions and looks. He wants to find out what emotions the redhead is feeling when he looks back at Marc after Marc writes a companion piece to his art. Awe and gratitude and something else he can’t place.

They’ve started to touch more, Marc’s noticed. He’s not sure if it means anything, if it’s related to the way Nathaniel looks at him, but he’s noticed. Their shoulders rubbing, fingers touching as they pass their notebooks around, their knees knocking together.

Marc nearly jolts out of his skin every time their bare skin meets. Every time they touch, Nathaniel’s as cold as ice.

It doesn’t make Marc want to touch him any less, though. It makes his heart beat triple-time all the same.

Is this love? He’s not sure. He’s never been in love before. It’s probably too fast to tell, but…

But…

Marc has never felt this sort of connection with anyone else before. This sort of…link. This constant pull to always think of someone, to look at them, to _be_ with them.

Whatever it is he’s feeling, he knows it’s real, though. And maybe that’s enough.

* * *

Marc knows what he’s feeling.

It’s this knowledge that makes him slightly more confident in his actions and what he says around Nathaniel.

He’s not sure if what he does could be considered flirting, considering he always has nice things to say to Nathaniel about his art. But he certainly doesn’t hold back in his gushing, and he doesn’t bite his lip to hide his smiles around the other anymore.

He’s not sure if he’s flirting, but maybe he can at least show _interest_ , at least slowly.

“You’re always freezing!” Marc finds himself joking once, when their hands brush as he’s giving Nathaniel’s sketchbook back. “But you never take off your jacket…”

Nathaniel ducks his head, face going pink. “O-Oh? S-Sorry. It’s just—my hands are, um. They always get cold, is all.”

Marc fights down asking, “ _want me to warm them for you?_ ” Instead, he offers, “If you’re that cold, I could give you my gloves?”

Nathaniel snorts, then giggles. “Y-Your gloves are fingerless…! How would that even keep me warm?”

“You’d be surprised,” Marc tells him seriously, before he breaks, finding himself smiling goofily. “Alright, how about I let you borrow my hoodie?”

The artist’s face instantly turns as red as his hair, and he waves his hands in front of himself. “No! No, that’s—th-that’s not necessary at all! I don’t want _you_ getting cold because of me!”

“It’d be worth it,” Marc thinks.

“It wouldn’t!” Nathaniel retorts, and, oh. He’d said that aloud, then. “If you catch a c-cold because of me, I’ll…I’ll be really angry at you.” The redhead finishes his statement in a mumble, pouting.

“Alright, alright, I won’t,” Marc says, raising his hands in supplication and unable to keep the smile from his lips.

* * *

“Ice cube hands again,” Marc tuts teasingly, when their hands meet once more. “You sure you don’t want to borrow my jacket?”

“I’m sure,” Nathaniel states firmly, his cheeks an adorable shade of pink.

“Alright…”

“If you keep bothering me about it, I’m leaving,” the artist grumbles.

But the redhead doesn’t move an inch from his usual seat, much less leave.

* * *

Marc takes one look the group in front of him and turns on his heel to leave.

“Maaaaarc!” Marinette whines, instantly attaching herself to his arm and holding him in place. “Don’t leave us hanging!”

“I’m not telling you anything,” Marc states flatly. For once in his life, he’s keeping this secret from his cousin-slash-best friend forever. He’s not going to tell her about how he’s romancing a cute art boy. Or that they meet in a cemetery. Every day that’s not a weekend, at that.

He’ll be hounded about it all. He knows he will, even if Marinette has good intensions. She’ll try to insert herself into the situation and set Marc up, or at the very least try to plan a full date for Marc to take Nathaniel on that doesn’t involve dead people.

“You’ve been pretty much writing non-stop, dude,” Nino starts, bobbing his head to a beat only in his head. “And dudette’s said it’s all love poems.”

“Very romantic,” Adrien grins with a smile fit for a toothpaste model.

“It’s gotta be someone not from around here, too,” Alya nods, hands on her hips. “Red hair and blue eyes are already super rare, but I haven’t heard or seen anyone our age in our school district with that combo other than Sabrina—”

Marc finds himself grimacing in mingled horror and disgust. Marinette and her friends burst out laughing. “Uh, n-nothing against Sabrina herself, but…” he trails off, feeling green.

“You’re as gay as a rainbow. We know,” his cousin snickers.

Marc is feeling more and more antsy, especially when the others smile at him like they’re ready to interrogate him too. Or maybe Marc’s just panicking a bit at seeing the gleam in Alya’s eye, her reporter senses sniffing out a scoop like a bloodhound.

“He’s homeschooled,” Marc huffs out, detaching Marinette’s grip on his arm. He tries to fight the urge to make himself small and sink into himself. He needs to stand strong and firm, if he wants Marinette and her friends to drop this. “So I really doubt you’ll find him in a high school any time soon.”

“So you _do_ have a boyfriend!” Marinette crows, pointing a finger in his face and beaming brightly.

“He’s not my boyfriend…!” Marc finds himself groaning, face palming.

“Yet!” Marinette sing-songs.

“How’d you two meet, then…? If your boo’s home schooled and all,” Alya asks slowly.

Marc looks up and shoots a pleading look at Nino and Adrien. The two of them were rather go-with-the-flow kind of guys, but Nino could at least temper his girlfriend if he tried. And Marinette usually paid attention to the blond boy’s suggestions.

“Maybe they met in the mall or something,” Nino shrugs, reaching out to grab Alya’s hand, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. “People meet in random places all the time, right?”

“Or maybe the crafts store? Or at the library? Maybe even at a writing workshop?” Adrien suggests, ticking off each option with a finger. “Places that Marc would go to, and he met this guy that had similar interests, and they hit it off.” All very normal and logical explanations…which were completely off the mark, but very much appreciated by Marc.

“Listen, we’re not even dating—” he tries to start, only to be cut off by his cousin.

“But you want to be, right?!” she demands excitedly, all but in his face.

“I’m _working on it_ …!” he snaps back, a bit long-suffering and more than tired by this conversation.

Marinette blinks, eyes wide and face stunned, obviously taken aback by his response.

Marc claps his hands in front of himself, praying for patience, taking in a deep breath and letting it out in a sigh. “Mari, I love you, but stop riding my ass over this,” he starts, looking pointedly over at the rest of the quartet, “And that goes for the three of you, too. My love life, my business. So, please fuck off. We clear?”

The group all look at each other, exchanging looks of surprise, obviously not expecting that response from him.

To be fair, Marc isn’t the type to snap. He’s…a bit of a doormat, actually, most of the time. Since meeting Nathaniel, he really has gained confidence, huh…?

To their credit, Marinette’s friends recover quickly, taking to Marc’s suggestion.

“Crystal clear,” Adrien nods back with an ok gesture.

“Got it, dude,” Nino adds with a thumbs up.

“Alright…” Alya trails off grudgingly, the light of interest in the mysterious redheaded stranger still in her eye.

Marc turns to look at Marinette, who’s shoulders are slumped and has a look of shame etched on her face.

“’M sorry…” she says, fiddling with one of her pigtails. “I just…wanted to help…”

Marc doesn’t hesitate to bring her into a hug. “Yeah. I know,” he says, feeling how his cousin tries to hug the stuffing out of him. “But I wanna try doing this by myself, for once.”

When they pull back, Marinette smiles back at him, a small and sincere thing that still shines bright. “Go get ‘im, Marc.”

“That’s the plan,” he grins back.

* * *

He feels bolder, with the support of Marinette and their friends, plus the reminder that he should really get on romancing his crush properly.

He can’t let all his love poems go to waste, after all.

Marc hands his notebook to Nathaniel, letting him read a poem about a boy with a loud laugh and a smile as bright as the sun.

Nathaniel shows him a drawing of flowers, red chrysanthemums and forget-me-nots and red tulips. They’re gorgeously rendered, and the artist’s cheeks are flushed a fetching pink when Marc leans in close to inspect the page.

Marc doesn’t know the secret love language of flowers, but after he goes home and looks up the flowers online, all the results talk about love in some form.

He finds hope bloom in his chest, buds surviving the Winter to awaken in Spring.

* * *

“The cold makes your ligaments stiff, you know. It’s bad for your fingers,” Marc tries, in his latest attempt to make sure Nathaniel’s hands don’t fall off from bad blood circulation or something. The other’s hands are as frozen as someone who’s walked outside during a snowy Winter without gloves.

“I’m _fine_ , Marc,” the artist sighs in exasperation, retracting his hand.

Feeling bold, Marc reaches out and takes Nathaniel’s hand in both of his. “I could warm them up,” the writer says, rubbing the other’s ice-cold hand between his. It feels like trying to grapple a block of ice. Nathaniel’s hands are as cold as a corpse, but it probably wouldn’t be very romantic to joke about that.

When he looks up at the other through his lashes, Nathaniel’s gone beet-red, from his neck up to his ears.

Marc brings up the other’s hand cupped in his, breathing against it, his lips barely ghosting across the other’s skin. Nathaniel squeaks.

Marc simply smiles back beatifically, letting his hand go. Nathaniel jolts it back to his side. “Better?” he asks innocently.

“Yeahthatwasfinethanks—” the redhead garbles out, voice pitched up an octave, face still beet-red.

“What about your other hand…?”

“H-How about your notebook? Did you, uh, did you w-write anything new?” Nathaniel asks, very obviously changing the subject.

Marc bites his lip to keep down a giggle. “Yeah. Here, I’ve got a new poem.”

The poem involves someone with eyes as blue as ice and hands the same frostiness, but their voice and smile as warm as the sun.

If Nathaniel has any objections or suspicions, well. He doesn’t say anything.

* * *

The next drawing Nathaniel shows Marc—presented to him with red cheeks and averted eyes—is of Marc himself. It’s a charcoal portrait of Marc smiling sweetly, eyes colored in a vibrant green, alongside pink lips and a rosy blush on his cheeks.

Marc wants to bring the other into a kiss, and just barely manages to refrain himself. But only just.

He settles for taking one of Nathaniel’s hands in his, looking him in the eyes, and saying, “It’s absolutely _gorgeous_ , Nathaniel. Thank you. It’s my favorite drawing yet.”

“You’re welcome,” the redhead whispers back shyly, half-hiding between his overgrown bangs, half-preening under Marc’s sincere praise. “I-I wanted to capture your essence and beauty and—S-Sorry, that must be strange to s-say—”

Marc brings up the other’s hand to his lips, gently kissing the icy knuckles. Wide blue eyes stare back. “It’s amazing. _You’re_ amazing.”

Nathaniel gently unwinds his hand from Marc’s, opening a new sketchbook page to start furiously drawing. His head is ducked down, his ears are red, and he’s obviously flustered and trying to hide it.

When Marc moves so that their shoulders are pressed flush together, though, Nathaniel doesn’t move away.

* * *

Marc hums a jaunty tune as he all but skips down his house’s front steps.

He’s not sure if him and Nathaniel are dating, but it certainly feels like it, doesn’t it? They both had a sort of…confession. So they’re together, aren’t they?

It’s been a week since then, and neither one has asked the other officially, but something’s _changed_. Shifted. The air between them is charged, their touches more pointed, their gazes longer.

Marc’s going to ask Nathaniel out today. Yesterday, Nathaniel seemed distracted. So maybe he was thinking of this sort of conversation, too. Maybe Marc can beat him to the punch.

The writer makes sure to stroll instead of skip into the cemetery. Wouldn’t want to be disrespectful or look like some sort of psychopath, after all, even if almost no one was ever around the area to be able to judge him for being so enthusiastically happy.

Marc crosses the usual row of graves, keeping his eyes peeled for the usual shock of red hair.

His gaze stalls at a grave. Red hair, but…It’s curlier and bushier than Nathaniel’s.

Marc blinks. Huh. Very few people are ever around here in the first place, and red hair is pretty rare…

Curious in spite of himself, Marc heads towards the newcomer.

* * *

As Marc nears, he picks up that the curly hair belongs to a woman. A muscular woman crouched down, obviously in the middle of praying at a grave.

He hovers a few meters away, knowing to give the woman privacy to mourn.

After a few minutes, the woman raises her head and blows out the candle in the silver candlestick left against the tombstone. She ties her hair up in what looks like a ripped piece of black cloth.

And then she looks over, right at Marc. The teen finds himself startling, frozen in place like a little rabbit in the face of a predator. The woman stands up. She’s easily six feet tall. Holy shit.

Marc finds himself squeaking out, “I-I’m sorry, um. I-I-I’ll leave—”

“You’re fine!” the amazon of a woman says, waving a hand around. “I’m technically done anyways. You’re not interrupting.”

Marc’s eyes dart to the candle, and then the headstone. It looks like a very well-maintained one. Obviously, this woman must care a lot for whoever is buried there.

“I’m Jaina. What’s your name, kid?” Marc blinks back in surprise, looking up at the woman. She’s got an intimidating stature and set of muscles, but her smile is small and sincere, and her grey eyes are kind.

“I-I’m Marc,” he introduces, slowly walking forwards.

“’Lo there, Marc,” the woman salutes him, grin turning crooked. “You here for your own family?”

“I-I, uh. I live nearby, actually…” Marc starts cautiously, “B-But my Gran is buried here?”

“Ah, I see,” Jaina nods, smile taking a melancholic edge. “Well, I’m just paying my yearly visit. I never miss the day of my little brother's death. I like to actually be here at the grave for that.”

Marc turns his gaze to the tombstone. Carved neatly above a Star of David is the name Nathaniel Kurtzberg, 1996-2011.

Wait. Nathaniel…? And he was fifteen when he died?

That’s just like—

Startled, Marc looks back at the woman, noting the freckles and red hair and Roman nose and eye shape—eyes that were exactly like his crush’s if not for the color—and. Oh. The resemblance is very clear.

“Yeah…” Jaina sighs sadly, face dropping, looking serious and sad. “Yeah, he was just fifteen. Around your age, prob’ly.”

Jaina lets the statement settle in the air. Marc finds it wrapping around his lungs like a vice.

Just like just like just like—

“Sorry for spooking you, Marc.” He snaps his attention back up to the tall woman, who’s grimacing back at him. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. You’ve got a long life ahead of you.”

“R-Right…” Marc stutters out, biting his lip and fighting down the burn of tears in his eyes, because it _wasn’t fair_ , and he never even knew, and…

He tenses, feeling a hand on his head, gently ruffling his hair. “Go back home, okay, kid? Don’t make your parents worry, wandering around a spooky graveyard alone,” Jaina says softly.

A lump is clogging Marc’s throat, so he nods his head instead of trying to speak.

He watches as Jaina turns around and picks up the silver candlestick, watching as she places a hand against the headstone one last time, before she’s walking down the rows of graves and towards the south exit. The one with the parking lot nearby.

He watches Nathaniel’s sister, with her flame-bright hair, disappear into the distance.

* * *

Marc doesn’t follow Jaina’s suggestion. He doesn’t turn around to go back home.

Instead, he stays to stare at Nathaniel's grave. "Why didn't you say anything before...?"

"Well, it's sort of a hard thing to confess, being a ghost," Nathaniel admits, appearing besides him.

As quiet as a ghost. Because he _was_ one.

The irony was so cloying, Marc felt like he was choking on it.

So much made sense now. Nathaniel being so quiet and unnoticeable, even when Marc was trying to find him. How he was always freezing to the touch—often avoiding physical contact when possible. The fact that he never went to school. How he avoided talking about his family or home life. Him always being in a cemetery, of all places. Much less so regularly and alone, when he didn’t even have the excuse of living in Marc’s neighborhood.

It’s no wonder no one knew about any teenager that matched Nathaniel’s description. He’d died nearly a decade ago. He wouldn’t actually be around Marc’s age.

Marc takes in a deep breath, and feels it shake on the way out. Feels something in him break. "I'd thought...” he starts, fighting through the lump in his throat, “All this time, I'd thought I had time. To keep talking to you. Spending time with you—"

"I'm so sorry, Marc—"

"To fall in love with you."

Dead silence.

"Fall...in love?" Nathaniel asks waveringly.

Marc nods, sniffling, tears budding in his eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, I fell in love with you."

The redhead stares back at him, gaping, eyes full of a cocktail of affection and pain. "No one's ever loved me before," Nathaniel says in a small voice. “At least, not if they aren't family."

"I did. Do." Marc's crying now, tears trailing down his cheeks in hot rivulets. "I love you."

"...I'm a ghost, Marc."

"I know,” Marc rasps. “At least, I know now."

"I'm sorry," Nathaniel says brokenly.

Marc smiles back through his tears. "Don't be. I loved spending time with you. Getting to know you. Falling in love with you... you made me feel like I wasn't lonely anymore."

The redhead shakes his head, face twisted in a grimace. "Forget me and move on, Marc—"

"If I forget, you'll still be stuck here forever, won't you?" Marc asks— nearly _demands_.

He doesn’t know much about ghosts. But with the way the redhead goes eerily silent, he knows he’s right.

No one else was able to contact Nathaniel before Marc. For whatever reason, they had a sort of—connection. A link. Where Marc could interact with him, even if Nathaniel couldn’t interact with anyone else.

If Marc forgets about him, Nathaniel will be stuck wandering the Earth alone. Maybe even damn him from being able to move on. Marc doesn’t want to do that to him.

Nathaniel stares back at him with sorrow and fondness. "I'd rather you live a full life."

Marc closes his eyes, feeling a light, icy touch against his cheek. Something soft and intimate. "You deserve to move on to the afterlife, either way. I'll be fine here,” he says, as sincerely as possible.

When Marc opens his eyes, he sees Nathaniel's face scrunched up, close to tears. He didn't even know ghosts could cry.

"If I move on, promise me something," Nathaniel states, voice wavering with pure emotion.

"Anything," Marc states instantly with a nod.

"Promise me you'll live a full life, where you fall in love and get married and have a dozen grandchildren running around,” the redhead states with conviction and passionate love, “Live life until you pass peacefully in your sick bed. Don't end your life just to join me, Marc. Promise me, _please_ , promise—"

"I promise," Marc smiles, blinking back tears so he can look at his love one final time.

Nathaniel smiles back at him, a wavering and wobbly thing, but it’s a smile. “Good,” the ghost whispers, relieved.

Nathaniel leans in, pecking his lips, cold against warm. The first time their lips have ever met.

Marc blinks, and Nathaniel is gone. The wind rustles.

He looks up at the sky, and feels rain on his cheeks mingling with the rays of mid-afternoon sun.

* * *

Marc lies on his deathbed, surrounded by family, by his children and grandchildren. He doesn’t regret his decisions in life, he’s glad to find, while on his deathbed.

Doesn’t regret writing his and Nathaniel’s story. Doesn’t regret becoming a best-selling author. Doesn’t regret staying unmarried. Doesn’t regret adopting so many children in need, children that were abused or abandoned by the system. Doesn’t regret raising those children, and then watching those children have their own children and families.

He’s lived a long and fulfilling life.

It’s not the exact picture Nathaniel had painted to him all those years ago, but…It’s close enough. And it’s the life Marc wanted to live.

Marc Anciel closes his eyes for the final time.

* * *

When he opens them again, he’s greeted by an amazing and rather welcoming sight.

Nathaniel is there, as stunningly young and gorgeous as he was all those years ago. Hair like a burning flame, eyes like Summer’s rain.

Marc looks down at himself, seeing himself back at fifteen, and he laughs.

When Nathaniel kisses him, it's nothing but warm.

* * *

“ _Send me away,_

_With the words of a love song,_

_The ballad of a dove,_

_Go with peace and love._ ”

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Ending lyrics from the song If I Die Young by The Band Perry. 
> 
> Notes on the ending:  
> Marc never married, but he adopted lots of kids. He died from natural causes at 89 years old as a well respected author. When he goes in the afterlife, he's back to being 15 because it was the happiest time he felt and he still remembers his love with Nathaniel.
> 
> Anyways, how much of this was a sucker punch? Enjoyed the fluff? The angst? I always appreciate feedback. Love y'all!


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